love (is not a victory march)
by angelsdemonsducks
Summary: There are many versions of Dean Winchester throughout the multiverse. There is only one version of Castiel. Destiel, of a sort.


_(There is a story. It is written into the stars of Heaven, the fields of Earth, the pits of Hell. Everyone knows it, and no one at all knows it. It has many endings, and only one ending.)_

 _(It is the story of)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a mechanic.

Every morning, he gets up at the crack of dawn to help Dad and Bobby with the shop, and every night, he goes out to a local bar to drink off the day's hard work.

 _(Sammy used to come with him but now Sammy's at law school and he's so damn proud of him but still he left and it hurts)_

He typically doesn't remember the one night stands that result from the drink, but this one stays with him for reasons he can't understand. The man is black-haired and blue-eyed

 _(blue blue they're so blue why should that be important?)_

and when they're done, the man thanks him solemnly and grips him on the shoulder, and for a moment it burns

 _(like Hell and like Heaven and like everything in between)_

but it's over so quick that he must have imagined it. And then the man leaves. Dean doesn't even know his name.

He never sees him again.

Why does he remember?

 _(Sometimes, it ends without beginning.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a bartender.

Every Friday, like clockwork, a man comes into the bar and orders three beers. He only ever drinks one, and when Dean asks him why, he says: "The others are for friends." The man smiles as he says it, but it's a broken smile, and Dean knows that these friends

 _(family, Cas, we're family)_

are friends that will never come.

But one Friday, a Friday when Sam is visiting, the man sits for only about fifteen minutes with his beers before turning to them.

"I don't think they're coming," he says, and the pain in his voice makes something tighten in Dean's gut. "Would you two like them instead?"

Dean and Sam exchange glances, a look of mutual shock. When Dean replies, it is slow and hesitant, because what?

"You sure, man?"

And the man nods, and it is so firm that he and Sam both take a bottle

 _(relief flashes across his face why?)_

 _(they didn't drink them before)_

and the three of them sit in the empty bar and drink. It's an oddly comforting feeling, and when they're through, the man looks so much happier, happier than he's ever seemed to be.

Next Friday, the man doesn't come, and Dean considers calling the police before he realizes that he doesn't have a name to give them.

 _(Who are you?)_

 _(Castiel.)_

 _(Sometimes, it ends long after it should have.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a detective.

He's known across the nation, he and his brother. One Winchester brings in the criminal, the other prosecutes the shit out of them. Saving people

 _(hunting things)_

is their family business.

This man is a far cry from the serial killers he's used to tracking down. For one thing, the guy seems to be able to kill with a touch.

Dean gapes. "What are you?" he finally manages, trying not to puke.

The man stands there, calm as can be, next to the

 _(demon)_

young woman he just

 _(smote)_

killed. He opens his mouth and says:

 _(I'm an Angel of the Lord.)_

"I am a hunter. This woman and her cohorts were targeting you and your family. I have taken care of the problem. You

 _(deserve to be saved)_

are safe now, Dean Winchester." And the man vanishes into thin air, the impossible sound of wingbeats accompanying him.

Mom gets an odd look in her eye when he mentions the encounter over the next family dinner, and Dean figures that it might be a good idea to let this one go.

 _(Sometimes, it ends in nothing.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is the soulmate of a man who doesn't seem to exist.

He's looked everywhere, for years. Sure he's only twenty-nine, so there's plenty of time left, but honestly, how many people can there be with the name Castiel? The name curls gracefully on his shoulder, the first place that his soulmate is supposed to touch him.

Sam's is on his arm, where Jess accidentally knocked into him at a party. They've been married for four years now.

Dean sighs and leans back on the swings, gently rocking back and forth. He knows he's being stupid and pessimistic, but he can't bring himself to care.

 _(Where the hell are you, man?)_

Then, his foot catches on the ground, and he goes tumbling with a curse. He remains there for a moment, on skinned hands and knees.

"Are you alright?" someone asks with a gravely voice. Funny, he hadn't heard footsteps.

"Yeah," he grunts, "I'm fine."

Then there's an arm on his shoulder, pulling him up, and his soulmark is tingling, and he knows

 _(this is too familiar)_

that this is the one. He looks into blue eyes, and his fingers encircle the man's wrist. "Are you Castiel?" he whispers, voice hoarse.

The man smiles. "Hello, Dean," he says, and it feels like home.

 _(Sometimes, it ends in love.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a superhero.

Well, more of a vigilante, really, but in this day and age, no one cares. After all, everyone knows that the villains almost always win, so the civilians don't really care who's protecting them, as long as they are protected.

-Dean, there's been reports of gunshots three streets down from you.- Ash's voice drifts over his comlink, and Dean is once again thankful that he has such fantastic tech support.

 _(The Roadhouse burned and so did he.)_

"Gotcha," he replies, and swings toward the scene on his grappling hooks. He's careful to stay low to the ground, though; he hates heights.

The scene is not the one he is expecting.

There are six thugs on the ground, in varying states of consciousness. Standing in the center, splattered with blood, is a man in a trenchcoat, face as impassive as a stone statue. He looks like

 _(a holy tax accountant)_

this is a normal day out for him, and with the way Dean's day has been going so far, it might very well be. He hasn't heard about any new players in town, but that doesn't mean this guy isn't one.

"I assume you have this covered," he quips, because he's not sure what else to say.

The man tilts his head. "This world is an odd one," he states, like that makes sense. "I thought you might appreciate some assistance in your fight."

Um… okay? So this world is odd, apparently, but Dean thinks that this man might be odder. Staring into his eyes, though, he thinks that he's telling the truth. He's not sure how he knows

 _(We do share a more profound bond.)_

but his instincts scream that this guy can be trusted.

So he shrugs. "Whatever. Who are you, anyway?"

The man stares at him gravely. "My name is Castiel."

 _(Cas)_

 _(Sometimes, it ends with a beginning.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a demon.

He remembers being human, vaguely. He remembers a life on the road, killing the very things that he has become. He remembers a car, an old car, an absolute beauty. He remembers that he had a brother named Sam, and that he went to hell to save him.

He also remembers the last thing his brother said before Dean killed him.

 _DeanpleasenowecanfixthisDeannodon'tI'msosorryDean_

And then nothing but quiet.

Dean feels no regret.

And now, Hell is fighting a never-ending war against Heaven. He's not sure who's winning. He's not sure he cares. He just likes the fight.

He's fighting an angel now, one on one. It's poetry, the way they move, and there is an anguish in the angel's eyes that sweetens the deal.

"What's the matter, angel?" he taunts. "Getting tired?" It's not his most original, but it seems to do the trick. The angel's face crumples, which is odd, since Dean honestly didn't think that angels could feel at all.

 _(I'm not a hammer)_

 _(I have questions)_

 _(I have doubts)_

"I'm so sorry, Dean," the angel chokes out. "So, so sorry. This should never have happened."

And then, anger rises up in him, because what right does this angel have to apologize to him? What right? Dean hates him, this angel with desperation and sorrow written on his face, because he hates all angels, because the angels didn't save him. This angel

 _(gripped him tight and raise him from perdition)_

didn't save him. He lashes out and yanks him closer, intending to run him through. It will be fitting, he thinks, and he will enjoy seeing the impossible emotion frozen on the angel's face for all eternity.

Somehow, instead of killing him, he pulls him in for a searing kiss

 _(I need you)_

and when the angel responds eagerly, he can almost remember

 _(love)_

what it was to be human.

 _(Sometimes, it ends in blood and tragedy.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a psychic, and a damn good one at that.

So when he sees the man, he knows immediately.

"Cas!" he calls out, and somehow, across the street and the throngs of people, the angel hears him and turns around, blue eyes wide. Dean waves and beckons to him, and Cas flies to him, head tilted, confused puppy look on his face.

"Dean, what-"

Dean doesn't give him time to finish. Because he's not Cas' Dean, but he's Dean nevertheless, and he can sense such pain coming from this angel that he wants to fix it, no matter what it takes.

 _(Sometimes, it ends in happiness.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a hunter.

He's back from Hell, Bobby at his side, and he just wants to see this Castiel for his own eyes and get answers, and some payback for what the sonuvabitch did to Pamela.

But then Bobby is down, and he's facing a being far older and more powerful than he is, a being that isn't a demon after all but an actual angel, but he stands his ground, because what else can he do?

And when the angel stares him right in the face and tells him everything, from the fact that angels are dicks to the fact that Sam

 _(nonono that's not true it can't be Sammy wouldn't)_

is drinking demon blood, Dean listens, because there is a look in the angel's eyes that screams pain and please listen to me, and Dean has only ever seen that particular look on people who have lost everything.

Sometimes, he's seen it on Sam.

Sometimes, he's seen it on himself.

 _(Sometimes, it ends in a change of fate.)_

xXx

Dean Winchester is a tombstone, a grey slab of marble next to his brother's.

He died at the age of forty-two, from a simple ghost hunt. The fact that Sam had died about three months prior probably had more to do with his death than the ghost itself.

There is no body under the tombstone. Dean had been given a hunter's funeral. He burned, and the smoke reached the sky and touched the moon and floated away on the breeze. No angels cried for him, as they should have, no angels at all. No angel but one.

The angel considers following him, sometimes. Life seems empty now, and he knows that the Winchesters truly were his reason for carrying on.

But then the angel sees Dean somewhere. His freckles in the stars. His smile in the grey twilight before dawn. His laugh in the wind and in the music and in the car that he loved so much.

And the angel knows that there is still work to be done, and he stays.

 _(It always ends in death.)_

xXx

Castiel is an angel.

He is not, however, an angel of the Lord. He ceased being that a long time ago. He is Dean Winchester's angel, and he no longer knows why he tried to deny it.

Now, though, he is no one's angel, because Dean is gone, his soul thrown to the Ether, where Castiel cannot follow.

But an angel is not all that Castiel is.

Castiel is a hunter.

Castiel is a friend.

Castiel is a lover.

And now, Castiel is alone.

So he travels, wings his way through the multiverse. Because none of these other versions of Dean will ever be his Dean, but they are all Dean, all facets of the same soul, and Castiel can look after them all as best he can.

He will not fail Dean again.

 _(It never ends.)_

xXx

 _(There is a story. It is written into the stars of Heaven, the fields of Earth, the pits of Hell. Everyone knows it, and no one at all knows it. It has many endings, and only one ending.)_

 _(It is the story of a man and the angel who loved him.)_

 _(And it is forever.)_

FIN


End file.
